Helluva Day
by frickangel
Summary: He talks to her with whiskey on his breath and a heavy heart on his sleeve. [OneShot]


**Title: **Helluva Day  
**Author:** frickangel  
**Summary: **He talks to her with whiskey on his breath and a heavy heart on his sleeve. -OneShot-  
**A/N: **Hmmm… for once, I have nothing to say—which is rare.  
**Warning: **Totally un-beta'd.  
**Spoilers: **Definitely. Specifically from Episodes #220 (_Run Silent, Run Deep_), #223 (_Heroes_) and #224 (_Charge of this Post_).  
**Disclaimer: **Don't own, don't know and don't I wish.

--------

The moisture from the grass was beginning to soak his slacks.

True, the feeling was uncomfortable but he didn't care right then.

"Lots of pretty stars tonight, eh?" he looked up at the darkened sky, trying to count the endless string and groups of blinking lights. He lost track after hitting the sixty-third star, he always had a problem counting aloud the sixties range.

He took a swig from the whiskey bottle.

Or the alcohol was beginning to get the better of him.

The hard granite against his back made a rustling sound as it rubbed against his coat while he adjusted himself in a better position. Laying his head to rest against the stone, his legs slid down and lay straight on the wet grass while his hands cradled the glass bottle; half the brown and pungent content already downed.

He drank again.

"Today was one helluva day, I can tell you that," he sniffed and rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his chin and its roughness. "Mac and Flack were in an explosion…" he caught himself in mid-chuckle, "Hey, did you hear that? It rhymes—Mac and Flack." He raised the bottle to his lips but at the last moment, decided that telling her the full story was more important. "Anyways, they both got caught in an explosion. Some a-hole decided that it was time to use those spare bricks of C-4 he had lying around. Now, before you start getting all worked up—they survived; just that Don got pretty beat up…"

How he wished he had a smoke with him now. What in God's name made him quit?

Oh right, he remembered.

God's name was Mac.

"So," he cleared his throat and continued, "They're caught in debris and trapped somewhere in this huge ass building. Don's chest was ripped open and blood was gushing out." He cringed at his poor choice of words, but he couldn't really think straight enough to phrase his buddy's injuries properly. "Mac's there and he saved Don's life with a shoelace."

The chuckle was washed out by another intermission of whiskey.

"Heh, very MacGyver-ish, I know," he licked his lips and looked at the bottle—only one third left. "Still, it took 'em quite a while to get Don back on living track. But the guy's strong, a lot like you."

A hiccup built in his throat and after suppressing it for as long as he could, he relented and it escaped.

"We nailed the guy and damn, he was under our noses all the time." Throwing up his hands, he laughed into the empty and deserted air. "He was some poor schmuck who wanted to be a marine but couldn't. The guy was a true schizophrenic and I'm not just saying that 'cause I'm mean, you know? Lessing, Dean Lessing… that's his name—he wanted to be somebody he wasn't and in the end he completely believed that he was proving to the government that we weren't ready for another terrorist attack like they claimed."

He raised his drink into the air, "Here's to Lessing and for telling the government the damned ugly truth." Only sipping this time, he placed the bottle back down and muttered under his breath, "…even if the son of a bitch's method nearly killed our friend.

"I had a near heart attack too," The laughter returned to him, "Mac and I stood there diffusing another one of Lessing's cell phone bombs. I'm like holding my breath and breaking into cold sweat while Mac's as cool as a cucumber. I swear to you, the man's probably had all his fear nerves or whatever, rewired into extreme calmness."

Another long gulp.

A quarter left.

"And for that, I owe that man a huge debt."

Different other topics raced through his mind as he mentally thumbed through them, figuring which would be the best to tell. He was getting tired talking about the bombs and stuff; it just got too depressing. "Louie's doing good. Doctors said he might wake up any day now. But then again, doctors are just real good liars in white lab coats."

He settled the glass down on the ground and left it there. Maybe it'd be good to lay off the alcohol a while; at least until the wave of sleepiness wore off. "You know, you've never met Lindsay have you?" He snorted and took off his glasses to wipe beads of condensation from the lenses with his coat's edge. "We call her Montana—well, at least I do. If I had tagged you as Brooklyn you'd probably hit me so hard that I'd be sitting in a loony bin for the rest of my life.

"But she's a nice one, completely different from you. Actually, come to think of it, you guys do have one thing in common—you both throw a mean punch." He winced and laughed at the same time thinking about the way Montana had tackled a suspect twice her size. "Wish you guys had met, you two would've hit it off real good."

The golden water looked mighty tempting again as it stood still in its container, "Either that," he turned away from the bottle and continued with the chat and grinned, "Or you two would've sparred it out. I could, you know, sell a few tickets and place a couple of bets."

Closing his eyes, he now had the image of both women in a ring right in the middle of the office and everyone cheering along—including Mac.

Yeah, that'll be the day.

"Nah, she's a real prize she is," he laughed, realising he wasn't making much sense. Ah heck, the liquor was already screwing with his brain; he might as well help it along the way.

His hands grasped the long neck of the bottle and drank another mouthful down, feeling the bitter-sweet intoxicating feel of the nectar. As he did so, his sight caught the indecent hour his watch was showing and it reminded him he should be getting up and gone. He rolled his eyes at the sogginess his pants were in as he stood up, dusting off bits of dead grass from his hands and leg sleeves. He swayed a little—side-effects of downing too much whiskey.

Looking around, he felt a sudden chill and the full blown reality of where he was hit him hard. "Damn, Aiden, the things I do to sit and talk to you," he stared hard at the other headstones and finally at his ex-partner's own. "Anyways, I gotta be going or else I'm gonna look like shit when I walk in for work tomorrow. Kinda feel like Jack Sparrow with too much rum right now," he frowned and shook his head before mumbling, "I can't believe I just said that."

He stood in front of her gravestone now, reading the engravings on the hard surface, and bowed his head; his voice dropped to a low whisper, "I still want that chicken parmesan dinner, you hear me? I can't believe you chose this way to bail out of cooking for me." There was no humour in his voice, just deep sorrow over the lost of someone so close to him.

First his own brother, Louie, nearly dies to save his ass; then Aiden becomes Ms. Private Eye—losing her life over the bastard Pratt—what kind of name was D.J. Pratt anyway? Sounded like some wannabe star with no talent.

And just a few hours ago it was Flack.

Was he cursed?

Carrying the bottle up, he poured a small bit on the ground—right at the step of her grave. "A Chinese friend of mine told me that this was their way of, like, pouring a drink for the dead," he chuckled and nearly fell as he took a step backwards, "So, here's for you, Aiden. Sorry I forgot to bring the coke, but hey, one part is better than none, right?"

He leaned forward and patted the top of the tombstone, "Well, I'm gonna go find myself a cab to get home. You take care, okay?"

Staring at the stillness of the cemetery—she didn't reply.

She never will.

He swallowed hard and looked up at the stars again, this time willing his tears to not fall. "Yeah, yeah… I know what you're going to say anyways. You'd tell me '_Shut up, Messer, you're being a wuss!'_. Well, that's who I am, Burn—a wuss."

Taking another looked at what remained in the bottle, he snorted and gazed at her quiet name again, "Here," he poured what was left on the ground before her, "All yours."

Shaking the bottle a few times to force every single drop out, he held on to the empty glass and hiccupped. "See ya, Aiden."

He set a few steps towards the main road, hoping to find a ride back when he stopped.

He turned.

He stared at her once more, thinking about her smile, her laugh, her wit, her perfume, her temper, and her passion.

He thought about all those moments he had with her and thanking the powers that be for those special times.

Finally, he breathed two more words.

"Goodbye, Brooklyn."

-----

'_If the sky came crashing down,  
You'd be the only star I found,  
Of all those scattered on the ground,  
I'd hold you in my hand.'  
_**Higher, Tara MacLean**

-----

**END**

Thanks for reading.  
-Cheers  
Jo


End file.
